(In an effort to bring some levity to the Calhoun situation,please enjoy what I imagine to be the events that transpired last night in George Blaney's hotel room as he prepared to return to the bench as UConn's interim head coach. It may not be true, but as far as I know, it's not not true.)

Late Tuesday night, in a dimly-lit hotel room somewhere near Hartford, a lone man is staring intently at his computer.

George Blaney (muttering to himself): Haha, because there's a badger, and then there's a snake. Oh, Internet, what will you think of next! I could never be so smart and funny and think of that. Well, better close up the computer for tonight. Gotta go do my night watchman duty, make sure all the kids are in for curfew.

He gets up from his chair and moves towards the mirror on the other side of the room. He grabs a blue dress shirt and begins to put it on over his white undershirt. Staring in the mirror, he sighs.

Blaney: Man, I hope coach Calhoun gets better soon. I don't mind being the boss and all, once in a while, but he's the coach. And he's my friend. It's his team. On the other hand...

He wryly smiles into the mirror and begins to speak in a slightly higher volume.

Blaney: ISO 15! CURL 11! That's some playcalling right there. You can do it, Blane Dog. The kids believe in you. The other coaches believe in you. Jim believes in you. Do you believe in you?

With the rush of adrenaline that comes from convincing oneself of one's own greatness, he takes off his glasses and throws them on the hotel bed.

Blaney: Yeah you do. You command respect. Look at those eyes. You shoot lasers of competence out of those eyes. When you blink, it's not just an involuntary muscle twitch, it's your signal that Alex Oriakhi better rebound the hell out of that ball or his ass is on the bench. Sure, he may not know that yet. But he will.

He flexes his muscles.

Blaney: That's right, Blane Dog. Do work. 'Oh, wow, what a handsome man that Blane Dog is,' they'll say. Oh, yeah, ladies. Check out my biceps. I call the left one 'pick', and the right one 'roll'. When I put them together (yelling louder) THAT'S WHAT I CALL A SCORING PLAY!

There's a sudden knock on the door. He is startled.

Blaney: Huh? Who is that? Oh, I hope they didn't hear me. That'd be embarrassing.

He meanders over to the door, composing himself. He hears a voice outside, a stereotypical Spanish accent.

Voice outside: Room service!

Blaney: Uh, no thanks. I, um, don't believe I ordered anything. And it's 11:15 at night.

Voice outside: Room service!

Blaney: No thank you, sir! Please go away. I'm busy.

Voice outside: Please let me in, sir. Room service!

Blaney: Ugh. Fine.

He slowly opens the door. A man pops out, surprising Blaney.

 

Jim Calhoun: Haha, fuckah! I gawt you. You wah doing the pick-and-roll bit in front of tha mirrah again, weren'tcha? That line'll nevah get you laid, Blane Dawg.

Blaney: God damn it.

Calhoun: You fall for this shit every yeah.

Blaney (sighing): Yeah.

Calhoun: Ah, classic. Pep up, Blaney. This ain't some Holy Cross bullshit. This is the Unigawddamnversity of Connecticut. UGDConn. Now go beat those St. John's assholes.

Blaney: Okay.

Calhoun: As always, I can't be bothered to coach a full game against that buffoon Roberts. I'll be in my mansion, prank calling Boeheim, like I do every Wednesday. You'd think he'd catch on at some point, but he nevah does. It's wicked pissah.

Fin.